


and i believe california succumbed to the fault line

by goengshis



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Beanitos, Canon Compliant, Come Swallowing, Coming In Pants, Explicit Consent, Fluff, Idols, Lowercase, M/M, Marijuana, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, Technically they're stoned when they sleep together but I promise there's enthusiastic consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 06:05:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19289686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goengshis/pseuds/goengshis
Summary: it's eleven at night on a friday, and he's in a convenience store with at least ten bags of beanitos in his arms, and there are the remnants of smoke residing in his lungs. and maybe junmyeon is beside him, eyes red and wonderful.





	and i believe california succumbed to the fault line

**Author's Note:**

> why yes, this is based off of [this](https://t.co/anfRnO6jGz), how funny of you to ask!

that rule his mom told him forever ago, the whole _don’t go grocery shopping on an empty stomach_ thing, should extend to being stoned, he thinks. not that he’d prefer for his mother to warn him about the dangers of having money in your pocket for exactly who knows how many bags of chips and cartons of ice cream while high off your ass on some of the best cali weed he’s ever gotten his hands on, but it should’ve definitely been like, an addendum or something.

 

he should write a self-help book.

 

after, of course, he’s finished constructing the leaning tower of bean chips in his arms, which are considerably more unstable than the soil of italy, but he’s digressing and he really, really just wants this last bag of nacho cheese to top off this super eventful friday night, hyperaware of his breathing and the way the bags crinkle in his arms, mouth-breathing like the nerd jongdae would compare him to if he could see the external struggle between a man and a lot of calories happening on aisle four right now.

 

he’s got it clutched in his hand like a triumphant athlete before long, though, and when he turns to walk from this battlefield and ignore the damage to his pride, the man standing right behind him nearly drops all of _his_ chips and frankly, chanyeol thinks, that’d be a tragedy. the noise he makes isn’t really dignified in any way, nor is the one he makes when he stops choking on the small remnants of smoke and ash swirling like dust in his lungs.

 

the bags in his arms feel like they’re going to fall. he should’ve grabbed a cart. dumbass.

 

or, well, the guy now in front of him should have too, and they’re really facing similar situations, now that he pauses to think about it. and it’s not like they’re strangers, these brothers in bean chips, but it still feels weird to be looking at another human being when it’s like, eleven at night and everyone’s anywhere but the little convenience store around the corner from his apartment and everything just kind of feels like a graveyard feels: empty but full and cozy while cold.

 

junmyeon levels him with an amused expression, completely ignoring the fact that they both have rather unstable collections of chips in their arms. “scare you?” he asks.

 

“forgot you were here,” responds chanyeol, sheepish.

 

“rude,” junmyeon says. he raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t look all that upset. his eyes are a bit red, probably dry in spite of how painfully un-dry everything else is, and he’ll probably reassess that observation later but junmyeon’s still smiling, so not all is lost. “you’re a bit of a space cadet like this, huh?”

 

there’s color rushing up chanyeol’s face as they fall into an easy step, trailing along this ghost town aisle towards the check-out, and if his hands were free, he’d probably be running one through his hair right now, needing something to do as he unwinds his insides loose again. “guilty as charged,” he finally says, low, like a secret.

 

junmyeon chuckles, good-natured, as they approach check-out, unceremoniously dumping his pile of chips onto the conveyor belt. he slaps the plastic divider behind his stuff, watches as chanyeol follows suit.

 

the cashier is a cute little thing: short, curly hair falling in ringlets to her shoulders, a splash of pink lip gloss across her mouth. she doesn’t really look up for longer than a second, glasses perched at the end of her button nose; when she announces the total and waits for junmyeon to insert his credit card, it’s with the same conviction of someone who would rather be anywhere than here.

 

he kind of feels that, if he’s honest.

 

right now, for instance, he’d rather be at home: junmyeon’s head resting on his thighs, his spoon pipe—the one that’s meant to look like an x-wing, the one that cost him way too much but it still hits like the first time—resting on his chest as he crushes up the nug in his captain america grinder, and maybe he’d have some death cab for cutie playing in the background, hushed from his computer’s speakers. it sounds almost idyllic, in some weird way, like pressing his fingertips into junmyeon’s hair when he’s taken a hit, watching his eyes open to look at him, a smile like sunshine on his face.

 

chanyeol kind of wants to choke. instead, he goes through the motions robotically, inserting his card and entering the pin through muscle memory and nothing else, a polite quirk of his lips as his mind drifts over to the man waiting next to him, like clouds changing as the wind blows; the urge to hold someone’s hand rises in him as he takes the plastic bag the girl offers him.

 

they say _thank you_ at the same time, exit one after another.

 

the air outside is easier to breathe than the air inside the store, and the streetlights and night life of seoul greets them like an old friend, people milling about with tickets to such and such and _did you see nct on knowing brother last night?_ and _ah, oppa is so dreamy_. they fall into step without missing a beat, face masks pulled back up and hats pulled down low, their voices quiet enough for only the two of them.

 

chanyeol’s mouth dries, though. damn cotton mouth. his mouth feels tacky and sticky, as if his saliva has thickened and begun to make a mold of his teeth, and as they turn the corner, fall in line with the direction of the sidewalk, shoulder-to-shoulder, chanyeol nudges junmyeon’s arm. and junmyeon looks at him as if he’d forgotten chanyeol was there, and maybe later he’ll feel a little hurt by that, but chanyeol is asking, “do you have any water?”

 

even behind the mask, he can see the older boy’s face fall. “we were just going around the corner…” he says, as if that explains everything.

 

“true,” chanyeol concedes without argument. “gum?”

 

 _how’s it feel to chew five gum?_ the commercial is playing in his head now, and as he stuffs the proffered stick of mint into his mouth, he snickers. _like this_. his mouth floods with the old kind of saliva, the one that kind of reminds people (junmyeon) of dogs; he chews with a happy hum, opens the door to the lobby of his apartment building without being asked to.

 

he follows the older boy to the elevator, leaning heavily on him when the doors shut in front of them, swallowing up the protest that erupts with a bubble of laughter from his own mouth. the bags shuffle while the floor number goes up, and the sensation of skin against skin is enough to sate chanyeol’s minor twitches, fidgets, fingers enveloping junmyeon’s thin wrist.

 

“you’re warm,” chanyeol mumbles.

 

“so’re you,” junmyeon replies, glancing at him from over his shoulder. he leans back some, easy into the strength of chanyeol’s body. “take your jacket off.”

 

chanyeol hums in affirmation, like he’s going to do something when he makes no attempt to move, the familiar scent of the elevator—musty, sometimes like marijuana despite the laws—almost a comfort as he simply rubs his cheek against junmyeon’s. the older boy snorts, jumping slightly.

 

when the doors open, it’s like his muscles take over for his foggy brain again, steering both he and junmyeon down the hall, a right, and then down another hallway. junmyeon produces the keys from nowhere, chanyeol’s own set having mysteriously disappeared from his belt loop. (his lips remain sealed nonetheless, eyeing the worn away paint of the megazord keychain.)

 

they enter the apartment like siamese twins: dump their bags onto the floor of chanyeol’s bedroom, the low light of the floor lamp warm as they clamber onto the bed. chanyeol opens his laptop, presses the spacebar to restart the music they had been listening to before the whole munchies debacle.

 

junmyeon lies back onto the pillows beside chanyeol, a bag of bean chips in his hands. he’s already snacking, licks his fingertips without a care, though his gaze meets chanyeol’s for a fleeting moment, and in there is fire not unlike that at the top his lighter when he flicks it near his bowl, packed tight and sending the acrid scent of grape and berries into the ceiling. he watches the smoke dance as it trails out of his open mouth.

 

it hangs there, like his breath, like the way junmyeon is pulling the pipe out of his hands, taking a larger-than-necessary hit with the same conviction that he approaches all things with. his eyes flutter shut and he’s leaning back into chanyeol’s space and it’s almost as if some kind of tractor beam has overtaken him: their mouths hover over each other, the exhalation from junmyeon’s mouth slow as honey until it’s not, until the distance closes and the startled jump of the older’s muscles means a gasp means some smoke means grape and mint and smoke that lends itself to drying their tongues.

 

the gum still in chanyeol’s mouth takes care of that, though, an inhale on an exhale and then drawing away. he breathes out through his nostrils, vaguely hears the crunch of the plastic bag when junmyeon scoots closer; he disregards it anyway, fingers reaching up to ghost along the shell of the other boy’s ear, heated skin like a slow broil.

 

his breath stutters for a second, eyes opening when they peel away from each other, the open window to the right of them offering another new soundtrack to get lost in: the movement of seoul, of the earth, the stars hidden behind the city lights, and maybe now isn’t the time to want to lean over to find the perfect song to match this because the decemberists, perhaps, just kind of hit the right spot. he doesn’t bother to listen to the words, finds that only the sound of them, the softness of english, is enough.

 

“you know,” begins junmyeon, tugging chanyeol away from his reverie with a quiet, honeyed voice, “i expected more freaking out at that.” he’s taking another hit, this one smaller, only for himself. tucking his head beneath the younger’s chin, he hums, content despite the nature of the statement.

 

“s’you,” murmurs chanyeol as if that explains everything.

 

“especially ’cause it’s me.”

 

chanyeol laughs, slightly hoarse. “nah. you make sense.”

 

“explain,” says junmyeon.

 

chanyeol shrugs, snaking his long arms around the older boy’s waist, big hands splayed against his spine. stretched like a cat, in a way, curling up with little pretense, natural. “i feel good,” he finally supplies after a moment, craning his neck to suck down the hit he’s prepared. “keep thinking about you. you don’t confuse me.”

 

junmyeon leans away but not too far, pausing when a whine tears its way through chanyeol’s esophagus, punched from him like a surprise, like a hiccup. he smiles without heat, presses warm palms to his cheeks, thumbs sweeping beneath doe eyes. “the others confuse you?” he asks.

 

“i don’t really think about the others,” he answers truthfully.

 

junmyeon presses his lips to the apple of chanyeol’s left cheek, brushes down to his jawline. the words he speaks are engraved there, into his skin, into his very bones: “i was hoping you’d say that.” a breath, barely there, his smile curled at the ends.

 

instead of responding, chanyeol just takes another hit and guides junmyeon’s face back up to his own, and there’s no preamble, if he’s honest, and there’s nothing other than the rare second of eye contact, the matching flushes trickling down their bodies. junmyeon’s fingers curl around the material of his sweatshirt.

 

it’s not like before, not with their previous words still propelling around the room, and the smoke they share escapes like ghosts from the seals of their mouths, and there’s even less of a rush to touch, the barest of motions proving to be more than enough for their lightning strike veins.

 

they break the kiss only to change the angle, chanyeol’s wide shoulders trembling lightly, minute, as he swallows down the sounds his mind crafts without his consent. junmyeon licks into his mouth, tongue wet and sharp as silver; chanyeol slots their bodies together, parallel before entangling their legs together, slotting one leg between both of the older boy’s.

 

he doesn’t bother to roll them into each other, the hands on junmyeon’s face crawling up to run through his hair, to mold against the back of his neck like an anchor, squeezing. a shudder runs through the both of them.

 

“only regret i’ve got is that we didn’t do this sooner,” confesses chanyeol when they part to breathe, lips kiss-swollen and glossy with saliva. his eyes are blown dark, insides squirming against the meat of him.

 

“yeah?” asks junmyeon. he attaches himself to the sharp angle of the younger’s jaw, nibbling lightly.

 

chanyeol hums with satisfaction, thrums with something more. he smiles, “could’ve smoked you out anytime. could’ve kissed you even sooner.”

 

“why didn’t you?”

 

“wasn’t brave enough,” whispers chanyeol like another secret.

 

junmyeon sucks at his adam’s apple, almost as if he’s disagreeing, but chanyeol can see him in his mind’s eye, knows that there is something to be named in the way junmyeon’s fingers delicately drag themselves beneath his sweatshirt, arranged like dust along his jumping stomach. he’s memorized the patterns that the older boy will draw into his flesh, the small bite of his fingernails along hard muscle.

 

“and now?” junmyeon finally whispers.

 

junmyeon smells like coconut and laundry detergent, like granddaddy purple and a little like nacho cheese beanitos if he’s honest, but still, there are hands on his hips and on his ribs, thumbs brushing over a pair of nipples, and he whines a little in spite of himself. a gaze catches his and holds it.

 

he still replies, “now i’m not scared of anything.”

 

and if there were anyone else in the room, if he were addressing anyone else, he’d probably be met with a teasing smile, the hint of teeth flashing under warm orange light, kisses like hints in video games pressed to his face, a lightness that seems to have been weighted down by the smoke that intertwines them. but no, junmyeon merely envelops him, overcomes whatever defense long limbs and toned muscles might offer him and tugs him close. a chaste kiss to his chin, deft fingers on naked flesh, overheated and tingly.

 

“that’s the weed talking,” smirks junmyeon.

 

“no, just chanyeol.”

 

there’s a snort of laughter emanating from somewhere at his neck, accompanied by a playful bite, barely anything but sharpgoodflushed like spots along his torso, a heavy bruise probably forming as junmyeon moves on to the next area.

 

he sees many scarves in his future. worth it.

 

chanyeol tips his head back, a hand coming up to stroke the older boy’s hair, soft as the line of his body, shiny and fine as the tint of a candle’s flame, and then holds the back of his neck in his palm, guides him back up with a coo of _hey_ spoken under his breath. their eyes are barely open: junmyeon’s mouth, much like the rest of him, sings for dominance, for the way they open themselves up for each other, moving in tandem as if practiced for years beforehand. these steps: they wrote these steps as teenagers, back when words had meant something more than making noise in comfortable silences and when the things he’d been told were wrong began to make more sense than society as a whole, and chanyeol cups junmyeon’s face in his hands, unable to help himself.

 

they kiss like breathing, as if oxygen is only found in the slide of their lips. noise chanyeol can’t even care to hear elicit from where they meet, and perhaps they would overcome the volume of whatever american band is now playing from his macbook were he able to extricate himself from the other boy. instead, there is a leg slotting between his, friction offered and received; a piece of himself is lost in the cavern of junmyeon’s mouth.

 

there are constellations like moving pictures in the matter that makes up his face, unstable and twinkling, and there is no hurry here. there is only the ebb and flow of time and space and everything that surrounds them, this essence of togetherness that threatens to combine the two into one. when they kiss, chanyeol tastes infinity.

 

his hands wander with minds of their own, pushing up the soft and silky sweater that junmyeon is wearing so as to touch his soft and silky skin. they leave paths of warmth in their wake, dragging long fingers calloused from mindlessly picking at his guitar hours ago. junmyeon squirms, a breathless laugh on his tongue, and chanyeol’s swallowing it down, nips at his smile until it parts like the red sea.

 

he smugly thinks, _let my people go_ , and then briefly wonders what that even _means_ , dude, like seriously?

 

but no, it’s like breathing in relief incarnate, like the scent of junmyeon’s shampoo and good bud has taken a spiritual form and settled deep in the cavities of chanyeol’s belly; it’s like this one taste of him is the very first time; it’s like he’s fever dreaming, hallucinating, body hot and shaking off the cold. the older boy takes big hands in his own, fingers intertwined and knuckles brushing the apples of junmyeon’s cheeks when he lifts them up.

 

junmyeon whispers into the tiny chasm between them when they part, fearless, “i want you.”

 

“how?” immediately asks chanyeol, as if he had been prepared. this feels rehearsed somehow, predicted, like performing a play for the thousandth time. heat coils within his core, fire, alongside the latent arousal he tends to always feel when touching like this, when faced with years-long pining shattering into reality without a true beginning and no end in sight.

 

junmyeon regards him for a moment, kisses him again with a softness, a chasteness that spurns that same fire in his center to spread through his bloodstream. perhaps it’s the weed lending colors to junmyeon’s words, too, but he’s speaking rainbows, “all of you. want for there to be no you ’n me for a while. no chanyeol. no junmyeon. just us, both of us—want you to take me _apart_ , insert parts of yourself in the places where i’m empty—” he interrupts himself with another kiss, this time along his bridge and then back again to his mouth. “hide in my fingerprints, chanyeol,” he murmurs, words felt more so than heard. “i’ll keep your secrets in my throat.”

 

“just hold them safe there,” he responds, romance tumbling from his lips, promises that he could never voice on his mind, and suddenly the kissing isn’t nearly enough, suddenly the boundaries that keep one from bleeding into the other are ridiculous excuses for barriers, and when chanyeol surges forward, it’s with a worship that no common word could truly describe. it’s the ebb and flow of his spinal cord finding purchase on the older boy’s hip bones, the way his body is like a tidal wave in how his big hands cover a good portion of junmyeon’s back.

 

whatever sound junmyeon makes is almost immediately muffled by chanyeol’s mouth, warm and wet, pliant in the way in which they simply explore one another, tracing well-crafted roads into landmark skin, blunt fingernails scraping compass roses onto the plushness of their necks. junmyeon whimpers, quiet, strangled, like the very noise is a curse that shouldn’t pass his lips, shouldn’t meet the air they’re breathing lest it poison their lungs.

 

the only reason that chanyeol pulls away is to press another searing kiss to the corner of the older one’s mouth, to press another near his jawline, to drizzle them down as fiery raindrops, if only to match the heat that threatens to burn him from the inside out. chanyeol moves in desperation, pulling himself flush against junmyeon if only to get a semblance of the life they’re floating in. the boy’s top is rucked up without ceremony, heat radiating from within his core as chanyeol mouths at it, at his stomach and the way it gets sucked in, ticklish. the fabric is bunched up underneath a blunt chin, mirth like whirlpools in half-moon eyes.

 

he presses kisses to small nipples, to the line between junmyeon’s pecs, to the little scar over his heart from a biking accident back when they were both young and stupid, grazes his teeth over every bump and curve if only to drink in the noises the older boy tried to muffle with his shirt. chanyeol smiles with ease, eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings over his own cheeks. he pauses to nuzzle into junmyeon’s ribcage, humming at the fingers rubbing over his scalp.

 

“you’re so…” begins chanyeol. his words get lost somehow, on their way from his brain to his mouth as he’s guided back up to junmyeon’s waiting kiss, first chaste and then hungry, then powerful, breathtaking in the utmost literal sense of the word. his thumbs busy themselves with junmyeon’s chest as he swallows down the noises that junmyeon releases. he arches up to extinguish the distance between them again, hips just barely making contact with chanyeol’s. “ _good_ ,” he finally mumbles, brow furrowing, the older boy’s bottom lip between his teeth.

 

he bites, sucks, journeys back in with all of the emotion he’s unearthed, edges less jagged, movements less unsure of themselves, and junmyeon is pulling him closer, rolling onto his back, and they’re slotted together, chanyeol’s legs on either side of his hips. breaths stutter when the older boy rolls them, a different kind of heat brushing against chanyeol’s core.

 

he feels the blush reddening his cheeks, the way his lungs scream when they draw away far too quickly, how his brain’s motherboard seems to short circuit at the sight of junmyeon on his bed, the halo his hair makes on his pillow, the dilation of his pupils, slick mouth, bruised neck. he swears if only to fill the room with something other than their panting.

 

junmyeon continues to grind up against him. it feels like his body is on auto-pilot when it responds, a delicious arch in his spine as he attempts to lengthen the contact, press harder, needy, _good_.

 

“chanyeol,” he whispers, relinquishing the vice grip on his pelvis so as to tug the boy’s shirt up and over his head, to revel in the appearance of hard muscle, golden skin; his gaze is full of appraisal, raking down chanyeol’s form without a hint of embarrassment. he repeats, “chanyeol,” like a prayer. looping an arm around his neck, he urges him back down, the slide of their mouths just on the knife’s edge of desperate.

 

“’myeon,” answers the younger boy, words mere vibrations and nothing more. his fingers spider-walk down junmyeon’s quivering sides, shades of red like a color study on the canvas of his skin. chanyeol, in turn, trembles, an ache resounding in the pit of his stomach—the weed has only intensified the universe around them, slow and stop-motion and obsessive, clinging to their joints and making them creak like doors in the rain. “’myeon, i— _fuck_.”

 

“yeah,” junmyeon agrees, breathless, swallowing harshly. chanyeol nips at his adam’s apple.

 

“take your pants off,” he says, fingertips already sliding underneath the waistband, urging him to just shimmy off the jeans, belt be damned. the older boy moves his hand from chanyeol’s bony hip to his fly, undoing the buckle, the button, tugging the zipper down with shaky hands, and this gives chanyeol pause. this makes him catch the older boy’s hand, makes him bring it back up to his lips, to press starshine into his knuckles. “you want this, right?” he asks softly. “you can say no. we can stop.”

 

junmyeon’s gaze has never been heavier than right now. he whispers, “i need you,” with the same reverence as a church singer, voice strong like he’s singing, clear and with the most desperate timber to it that chanyeol’s tongue peeks out to lick his lips in anticipation. a shudder drives itself into both of them; chanyeol shoves his fingers into junmyeon’s front pockets, pulls the jeans off with a bit of a flail, excitement and something akin to nervousness birthing a fire in his stomach, in his groin.

 

his boxers are tight, cotton, a nice faded red color that spills comfort into his bones, familiarity, and it mixes with the heat that coils even more prominently inside of him at the sight of the older boy’s erection: hard, leaking, a small wet spot spreading across the fabric. the little groan that is punched out of him sounds so far away; saliva is thick in his mouth. he swallows, glances back up at junmyeon with his dark eyes, wide and hot, before moving down.

 

he mouths at the bulge there, the strangled moan that junmyeon emits only spurring him on, one track repeating in his mind, a path like he’s memorized it formulating behind his eyelids. his big hands slip beneath junmyeon’s thighs, up to his ass, and he squeezes, and there are fingers slip-tugging through his hair and there are less words and more noises: exhalations that end on names and swear words, the shift of the bedsheets when the older boy shifts, squirms, back a bowstring pulled taut.

 

“ _god_ ,” junmyeon whimpers, hand curled around the back of chanyeol’s head now as if attempting to get him closer, like physics will bend to his desires if he forces it enough, like he truly wants for them to meld together, and chanyeol lets loose a high-pitched sound that he can’t seem to name.

 

“not god,” chanyeol says despite that, words tripping over themselves as they hang in the air. he’s smiling. “not god, just chanyeol.”

 

the responding laughter is wild, dancing on the edge of a little too loud, and before junmyeon can cover his mouth with his hand, chanyeol is already reaching up to do it himself. the tips of his fingers rest themselves on the seam of the older boy’s lips, plush, the cupid’s bow shapely, soft.

 

a wetness surrounds them like fire, the very thought of this having flitted through chanyeol’s mind once or twice, feverish and flushed, and he can’t stop the moan that shatters his throat, can’t stop the shaking of his very core when he finally, _finally_ pulls down junmyeon’s boxers, a miniscule string of spittle the only thing connecting his mouth to the cloth anymore.

 

it’s like opening a treasure chest, in a way. no loot crate could ever compare to this.

 

praise drips from the younger boy like honey, sweet and viscous and slow, an almost magnetic sort of pull dragging him in, eyelids fluttering shut when he can taste, when he can finally put a true description to his fantasies, like he’s been dreaming of this for so long that the storm building in his chest is second nature, like loving the boy underneath him is the easiest thing in the world. chanyeol situates himself even further between junmyeon’s legs, determination alight in the line of his shoulders. bitter, like strong herbs used in magic potions, and the salt of sweat on skin, and as his tongue spreads beneath his erection, the taste makes itself known on every taste bud—chanyeol gives a little groan, the cut of his cheeks prominent as he sucks, head bobbing, immediately picking a pace like a song in his head.

 

junmyeon’s legs encircle his head, knees hooking onto the breadth of him. the older boy tips his head back, fingers falling from his mouth and onto his chest, immediately tracing its way to a nipple; the added stimulation forces a darker shade of crimson further down his body, a twitch of his erection in chanyeol’s mouth. a collective noise like a moan, a whine, something frantic and animalistic erupts from the both of them.

 

chanyeol grabs at him, lifting him up as he, himself, sits up until only the upper half of junmyeon’s torso remains on the bed. the back of the younger boy’s throat cradles the head of his dick, a vacuum engulfing it, and the pressure aches, seems to stab at him from the inside as he curls inward and then out. fingernails scratch sharp welts down chanyeol’s arms, and chanyeol’s name is on his lips, chanting like a mantra, sensitivity so great that the slightest touch to the bite marks on his neck, to his jawline, his open mouth is enough to set him off again. and again. touching so insistently as if to make good on that promise junmyeon had made: keep his secrets in his throat, melt into each other until there’s no separate person remaining, only the ghostly remnants of stolen glances and _sharpgoodmore_ grazes of fingers, of lips, of bodies.

 

the fire in the pit of chanyeol’s belly is more prominent now, his own bulge obnoxious and straining against his pants, and his hands itch to touch, itch to dance along deeper aspects of the both of them until they are joined as one, explore the catacombs of the selves that they encompass, and the way junmyeon’s hips kick like a drum back up into his mouth is the only thing he could ever want in life anymore.

 

“g— _fuck_ , chanyeol, _please_.”

 

he’ll amend that now, thank you very much: that’s _one_ of the only things he could ever want in life anymore.

 

he can feel the way junmyeon’s toes curl against his shoulder blades, feet angled as if preparing for a pirouette, _en dedans_. chanyeol pulls up some as he tugs down on junmyeon’s nipple, an almost shriek like lava appearing like a demon from the very center of his chest, and the older boy is as a leaf now. there’s an arm thrown over his eyes, the other resting useless beside him, strangling the sheets.

 

“ _look at me_ ,” growls chanyeol as he momentarily pulls off, voice fucked out and loose, and then he’s swallowing him down again like he’s made to, like the only purpose he could ever imagine would be to do this over and over again. the thought of wringing every pretty noise from the older boy eggs him on even more, if possible, the image fleeting, the noises an echo.

 

and when chanyeol looks up again, junmyeon’s eyes await him: glassy, wet with tears, glimmering like the moon in the river. his heartbeat stammers like his words would if he had any to give. there’s pleasure in gripping junmyeon’s smooth thighs, in squeezing as hard as possible so as to leave bruises, memories, just in case this is some sick fever dream, a hallucination, desperation a real anxiety that whips him up, tornadoes in his lungs, fog heavy in his mind: he sees beauty unequaled in the older boy, a dragon coiled and ready to strike a fatal, final wound, and the cries of _close, so close, ’yeollie, so close_ are as bells in a clocktower and his nose brushes the jumping muscle of his stomach as he closes in, focused on the only thing he’s ever ached for like this, kneeling on his mattress, praying to whatever god can hear him to let this come.

 

kingdom come: he’ll never leave.

 

junmyeon’s climax is a brutal thing, sanity wavering on a fault line as he buries his hands in chanyeol’s hair, holding on for dear life as warmth seeps through the both of them, a boomerang of emotion, of pure ambrosia all golden and fair oozing through the air, corporeal, sweet and thick as it lay its heavy palms upon the pair. the older boy’s spine bends just so, an arc sending triumph into the other’s veins, a direct injection; he swallows around the erection until there’s nothing left, until the hands that tug become hands that push away, a different tone to the whining now.

 

when he sits up, chanyeol is aware of two things: his mouth tingles, jingles, rings. he touches it curiously, looking down at junmyeon and his heaving chest, his boneless pose, legs back on the bed and still open.

 

the second thing is simple: there’s a dampness in his boxers that had not been there before, and he can’t mute the chuckle that rips through him, barely audible through the thickness of his throat, the delicate tremble his vocal cords allow.

 

he leans forward, kisses junmyeon’s forehead, his hair matted to it from the sweat. he kisses his tear-stained cheeks, his quavering mouth, and when he draws away, junmyeon is following him. a hand like leaves in autumn reaches for his waistband, but chanyeol shakes his head, retrieves the offending limb to kiss the center of it.

 

“taken care of,” he explains. when junmyeon snorts in amusement, chanyeol can’t help but roll his eyes. “shut up.”

 

junmyeon hums a little. “make me,” he murmurs.

 

chanyeol looks at him, brain clearer than it’s ever been before, and there are beanitos bags all over his floor, spilled from the plastic bags they’d thrown aside, and his bowl is still half-packed and it’s right there, near junmyeon’s head, and they didn’t even get his shirt off before and a quiet, insistent throb of his heart against his ribcage overtakes chanyeol and he smiles.

 

he reaches for the glassware, for his lighter, and takes a too big hit like junmyeon had done before. he holds it in, the pipe back on the headboard where it belongs; hovering over the older boy, he smiles wider, eyes hooded, and the distance is so irrelevant, indistinct in how quickly it’s closed.

 

like how close cities are on a roadmap: miniscule, perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are lovely, if you enjoyed it!  
> twitter: [samjogos](http://twitter.com/samjogos/)  
> curiouscat: [magdalenes](https://curiouscat.me/magdalenes)


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